The Matters Concerning Holloway's Angels
by Bob the Robot
Summary: For those searching for truth, evidence is always needed for conviction. But what evidence is there to prove the existence of Angels? Doctor Who OC
1. Chapter 1

I.

* * *

If you are reading this, it means the time has come. The time to know the truth about everything.

First, apologetically, I must confess that I am entirely aware of the, let's say, mysterious circumstances to which you have received these words. I understand how, to you, they may seem to be beyond the bounds of possibility. But, if I am to be completely honest, I've known of these matters all along (it is only because of your current disposition that I wish to assure you now). Indeed, I have written this for you. And _only_ you.

To this end, all I can say is this: Do not stop- continue your search for knowledge, for it is not insanity that discourages you, my friend, it is conviction. Many people will no doubtedly persist in their persecution, saying your writings are nothing more than figments of your imagination, but, alas, what you are about to read is the definitive point of exposition. Truthfully, if any part of the story appears perplexing or questionable, it is only because the nature of these things lends itself as such. I admit that there is certainly an air of impossibility to my account, but not one word has been exaggerated, not one word has been embellished. Everything that has transpired is _truth_. Yes, even _I_ am a testament to its validity.

But I am not an unreasonable person. Evidence is clearly needed to establish realities and, from our conversations, I can ascertain a forthcoming sense of confusion on your part. If I were in your position, I'd feel exactly as you do, which makes proving my story so much more difficult. Having said that, I will now start from the beginning.

My name is Lewis, born September 23, 1901, to two loving parents in London, England. My childhood, like most children, was quiet and fair due to my parents' adequate rearing. Unlike most children, however, it was also full of disturbing religiosity. My mother and father knew nothing more than ancient traditions and unwavering piety to the Church, and any questions I had regarding faith or even the existence of God were immediately squelched by credulity. As you can imagine, my propensity towards them waned naturally and I gravitated towards the only truths that made sense (Although, admittedly, this, in itself, did not deter me from the belief in a Supreme Being). Yet, it was during this time that I found refuge in the fond relationship I had with my grandfather. It was his avidity and persistence for truth that inspired me to carefully seek out knowledge for myself. As such, while I lived in the small city of Painswick, England, I eventually became an instructor of Biology.

Painswick, though, was not where I gained my education. Formally, I learned at the University of Cambridge, the very institution of renown scientists such as Alfred North Whitehead and Francis Crick, who are, in my opinion, some of the greatest minds in the field of Life Sciences. Personally, Life Sciences are the only focus, apart from the physical sciences, that I hold to be of upmost importance. Which is more than I can say about the prevailing opinion in Painswick. Undoubtedly, a truth I came to appreciate there is that life in a small town is no place for progressive minds. Extending one's knowledge of the world can only be accomplished as long as there is continued advancement. Like yourself, I'm sure, I believe every young man feels the need to experience life, unadulterated by the constraints of societal rules and management. So, at a relatively young age, I became quite an accomplished traveler. I learned from various experts from all around the world, Egypt, Australia, the Galapagos Islands, and others like it, gaining an extensive knowledge far beyond that of Biology, but of different cultures, languages, and traditions.

It was during these adventurous 'studies' abroad (one of my last trips to a foreign land in fact) that I met a man named Richard Drumlins. I was on the edge of a cliff, searching for the _Angelica archangelica, _a native flower of Norway, prized for its digestive medicinal uses. Nevertheless, on this particular excursion, I reached too far and lost my footing, which caused myself to topple over the side. Only by grabbing hold of a jutted rock mass did I narrowly escape a swift death. In those perilous moments, I thought I was going to die on that ledge, if not by starvation, then definitely by a lack of endurance. But it was in those dire moments that Richard Drumlins appeared, as if from nowhere, and saved me.

It was a very curious circumstance, but, then again, he was a curious man, with an even curiously obsessive background. During most of the duration of our friendship, I knew not completely of where he came from, nor what he was before our first encounter. To my knowledge, he was a traveler, like myself, partially due to the fact that he was unattached to any existing family (Although, he once told me that he wished to meet them again, which was a statement I found most puzzling). He was familiar with my name, or at least that of my grandfather's, and had an extensive knowledge of different sorts of eclectic oddities. These included things such as the Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek languages, certain ancient oriental customs, both the physical and life sciences, and various religious philosophies. All in all, it was quite an impressive list of acquired talents that both garnered my respect and inadequacy as a professional. Despite my eventual understanding of this, however, I must say, throughout my initial acquaintance with the man, I never fully comprehended the finer points of his life which could have explained his unfamiliar and quirky sensibility. From that serendipitous meeting onward, it was obvious that he had a hunger for a very specific type of knowledge. And, of all the strange obsessions Richard consumed his time with, the most intriguing was that of _angels_.

It was one of the initial topics he chose to discuss with me all those many years ago. He often spoke about a house in London that once belonged to his great grandfather. A house inhabited by, what he referred to as, _the Weeping Angels_. At first, I dismissed his obsession as nothing more than a trifling waste of time, for I had heard of those haunting fables before. You see, my grandfather tried to scare me as a child with those same stories, and my familiarity on the subject drew from those particular memories. Still, it aroused a sense of curiosity within me, beckoning me to question him further.

Surprisingly, to Richard, the Weeping Angels were not fables and stories to scare little children. To him, they were real. He spoke quite convincingly about the subject- how they are as old as the universe itself, that nobody knows where they came from and nobody knows quite what they are. The so-called 'Lonely Assassins' or the 'Loneliest Beings in the Universe'. It was all very strange to me indeed, because, despite my doubts, by all assessments, his confidence about their validity was genuine. Richard spoke with such certitude, he made it seem as though they _could_ be those terrifying, other worldly creatures from beyond our solar system... but I thought it best not to entertain such farfetched notions.

Eventually, Richard admitted the story to be almost folklore, spread about by a woman who claimed to have experienced the horrors of the Angels herself. Much like any legends of old, though, he was sure that the stories were based in some sort of truth. This was somehow a vital aspect to his belief. He said that the legends of the Weeping Angels were too frightful, too horrible, to be just _stories. _You see, his fixation rested upon, not exposing the tales as falsehoods, but on the _reconciliation_ of both fact and fiction.

Once, during a particularly heated argument, Richard provided the greatest proof of evidence any educated person could give, which changed the course of our friendship from that point on. My memory of that noteworthy night is one I will not soon forget. We had just set up lodging on the outskirts of a forgotten forrest, eagerly grasping at dry timber for the warmth of firelight. As it happened often, the subject of the Weeping Angels made its way into our conversation and my opinion on the matter had staunchly remained on the side of reason, while his was immovably on the side of emotion. It appeared that there was no room for any other side in the argument. We must have argued for hours. By then, the Moon had been covered by an inauspicious group of clouds. The only source of illumination was our fire which warped the shadows of night into terrible daggers that stabbed into the blackness. And even though my surroundings had been hidden behind the thickened veil, I was still able to see Richard's face. And Richard was at his limit.

"You already know the Angels exist!" he groaned. "How can you still disagree?!"

"You are mistaken, Richard," I retorted. "Any notions about their existence are based purely on children's stories and fables."

With a disgruntled sigh, he threw his hands up. "Fine!"

At first, it seemed as if he had given up, that my statement had enough air of finality he could no longer argue his point. But, immediately, he grabbed his traveling pack and began thrashing through it, evidently with a specific purpose, which caused me to wonder what exactly it was that he was looking for. Like a mad man, his search was characterized by whispered complaints and exasperated murmurs. An unexpected sense of alarm crept into my chest when, after a considerable amount of time and wait, he smiled and pulled out a series of photographs. My apprehension heightened as he silently handed them to me one at a time.

As I viewed each image individually, it became clear to me that the idea of being reasonable seemed incompatible with truth. These were the photographs of his great grandfather's house, the house he recounted about often. These were the photographs of the four statues locked in the basement, the statues of which were the basis for what he believed in. These were the photographs he used to irrevocably prove his point. Richard was indeed consumed by the idea that he could find the truth behind the stories, that he could find other statues like the ones in his photographs... the images of which I wish I could forget, for seeing them was the start of _my_ obsession with the legend.

Regrettably, I must inform you that I am not in possession of these photographs. I understand how they could assuredly act as proof for my account, but it is better that they are gone. The images held within are some of the most petrifying sights I have ever laid my eyes upon. According to ancient scrolls and scriptures, angels are expected to be messengers and public servants, helpers to those who did the will of God. But these were not at all the angels described in those antiquated texts. Their faces were most dreadful, forever locked in a state of merciless voracity. A blank emptiness filled their pitiless eyes, their mouths were unnaturally held agape and brimming with razor like fangs, and twisted arms held claws like that of an unrelenting monster. I shudder to think of what becomes of the poor souls who might face such creatures... I apologize for my rudeness. I will most definitely try to keep on track with my account.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

* * *

After that night, Richard Drumlins and I spent two weeks traveling together, wherefore we discussed, at length, all we could about the Angels. I wanted nothing more than to talk about what he knew and whether or not it corroborated with everything I've heard. Whereas I initially had a profound skepticism about his conviction, having seen the photographs for myself, my mind was completely made over. The proof was undeniable, and my enthusiasm for the subject bore the same sentiment. Of course, Richard was absorbed in our conversations as well, but his excitement was one of relief. He was happy in knowing that there was someone else who believed. Not only did I believe the Angel's existence, but I was someone who genuinely believed _him_. This was the reason why he did not bring up the photographs earlier. He wanted to gain confidence in me as a person. He wanted to make sure that the only reason for doubt was a lack of evidence and not a lack of trust. He told me many times how much he appreciated my acceptance and understanding, for he had spent many months alone, his spirit cast asunder and often discouraged by the merciless hand of ridicule, largely by those who were just as skeptical as I.

There was only one other person, Richard told me one night, who believed the stories concerning the Weeping Angels. Unfortunately, the two had a falling out due to a conflict of interest regarding what to do with an Angel statue if he were to ever find one. It was on that night Richard asked me why the Angels were so important to _me_. I was teaching him what I knew about various flowers and their medicinal purposes, while he was trying to teach me how to read in Hebrew (Of course, the latter proved to have less practical application; I haven't the slightest clue of what I was able to read), and, as it always did, the subject came up. However, it wasn't hard to come up with a response. You see, for me, the Angel's existence meant one thing: my grandfather was _right_.

It saddens me to think about what that man had to go through. I am unsure about the full extent behind his descent into madness, but, as a younger man, he was quite an accomplished archaeologist. Known for his unwavering avidity for discovering truths long lost, my grandfather was someone who garnered much respect and adoration from colleagues and rivals alike. But when he became fixated on uncovering the Weeping Angels, his entire reputation and character came into question. Nobody knew _how_ he came to know of their existence, nor did anyone know what his initial research was based on, but I distinctly remember the way he used to talk about them. He told me everything he could about any of his recent discoveries, and he did so with such a contagious enthusiasm, it was hard not to be consumed by it all. And, of course, as a child, I was enthralled by his stories. He even wrote a book, a journal to be more accurate, detailing every single piece of information he found on the Weeping Angels (He read it to me often, and even gave it to me before his death). But as I grew older, my interest in the mythology diminished. Sadly, in the end, the rest of the world felt similarly. His reputation began to disappear, along with his sanity, and soon it all seemed to be nothing more than the inconsequential fantasies of a mad man. My grandfather died in ill repute by his professional and familial community alike, alone and discarded like the artifacts he dug up. I can only imagine the heartache and the despair he must have felt in the final moments, knowing that he was the _only_ one who knew the truth.

My answer seemed to satisfy Richard since his inquisition did not continue any further. Strangely, when I asked him the same question, he avoided answering altogether and resumed his language lesson (I didn't find out until later why he was always so cryptic about his past), but from that point on, it appeared I had become someone he fully trusted.

Now, up to this point, the subject regarding the Angels often led to speculation, which then ended in disappointment. Almost excruciatingly, the desire to pursue further evidence became more than just a mutual inclination towards curiosity. It was a fire in our bones. We were like children, set ablaze by the limitless possibilities of knowledge while simultaneously disposed to impatience about the lack of definitive results. It was during the last five days of our journey that the decision was made to pursue any further proof on our own. The idea was that, since we were only two men, more could be accomplished by ourselves than together. It was essential, though, that any new information was to be communicated immediately.

On the fourth day, we were able to make it all the way to a quaint little island called Svinør, a former port off of the southern coast of Norway, to finalize our plans. But on the fifth day, I awoke to an empty cottage, with nothing more than my belongings and a note from Richard, apologizing for leaving on such sort notice. Apparently, he had an epiphany the night prior about the whereabouts of where he might find the Angel Statues and knew that he had to leave post haste. But he left his mailing address since he was positive that, although being the first to depart, he would not be the first to correspond. I wrote to him immediately. I felt it necessary to tell him that despite this, he could expect promising findings soon.

I must admit, at first, I hadn't the slightest idea of how to begin my quest. The obvious choice was to begin with my grandfather's journal, but he gave it to me when I was very young and, thus, had forgotten where it was. Truthfully, I was unsure whether or not it was even in my possession any longer. On the other hand, it seemed odd to just approach the populace and inquire about the Angels, so, in the end, I opted to do some research. My first stop was the city of Cambridge, where the University Library still stands, a beacon of knowledge and research which very reasonably could hold the answers I was looking for. I began with extensive research on the mythology of England itself. Not surprisingly, England's folklore has roots deeply entrenched in the rich, complex and often convoluted history. With so many battles, religious revolutions, artistic renaissances and political upheavals, there were many legends to sift through. Much of the difficulty lay, in part, that folklore was passed down orally, from generation to generation, so finding something so specific proved an impossibility. Although many English legends were fantastical in nature, none bore any resemblance to the stories Richard Drumlins and I held to be truth. Almost desperately, I even asked a few experts who frequented the Library about some of the more forgotten legends of England, hoping the subject would come about organically, but we never approached the matter of angels.

Thus, I ventured to London, England, where Richard claimed the stories originated. And, against my better judgement, I asked within the localities concerning the Weeping Angels directly, but it ended with the same results. Nobody had ever heard of the Angels, the house of Richard's great grandfather, or the woman who spread about the stories. I was baffled and disheartened to say the least. Nobody was willing to talk, nor was anybody willing to listen, except for one man... a very strange man. He introduced himself as Warren Clark Ravensdale. At first glance, he did not seem to be anybody of particular note. He was a tall, lanky gentleman with a low resonating voice, but every time he spoke, it sent a chill down the center of my spine. His calculated manner of speech and gesture gave him a strangely ominous presence. Within minutes of our first conversation, I had the sense that his interest in the Angels was not the same as mine.

Accordingly, I had many reservations about the permanence of our quest, especially in consideration to my grandfather's failure and even Richard's former ridicule. But there was still a sense within me that did not allow me to disregard it all as fabrication. The way Richard talked about the Angels was as if his obsession was fueled by a fear, an intriguing semblance of dread. And, whether the Angels themselves were real or not, the photographs of the things provided too much evidence to toss aside. There was too much contradiction to ignore either theory completely. I was resolved to write to Richard again and inquire about said contradictions, but upon arrival at the post office, there was already a letter waiting for me.

Here is the letter. You may read it in full:

Monday, 12 November 1956  
42, Chilkwell Street  
Glastonbury  
Somerset  
BA6 8DB

To my friend, Lewis: -

I wanted to let you know that the 'epiphany' I had about where I could find more Weeping Angel statues turned out to be a dead end. I should've known better than to think I could find them in this time. Also, I will be living in a house here in Glastonbury, so you can expect my replies to be much quicker.

I hope your search is more fruitful than mine.

Signed,  
Richard W. Drumlins

After the experience I had, I was not surprised that he failed to find anything as well, but I decided to write him a response regardless, detailing my frustrating and confusing endeavor in Cambridge. As I wrote the letter, I must admit, I began to question the sanity of even myself in this endeavor.

Several days passed without word from Richard Drumlins, and I began to wonder if it was because of the contents of my last letter. As far as I was concerned, I did not think it to be rude or full of ungentlemanly speech, but I could not reasonably assume any explanation for his lack of communication. A week went by and I began to think something terrible happened to him. It came to the point where his safety began to outweigh the mystery of the Angels themselves. Having already experienced a measure of loneliness and frustration from my search in Cambridge and London, the thought of Richard having to relive any such isolation and ridicule was unacceptable. So, by the beginning of the second week, I was determined to concern myself fully on the well being of my friend- but the grotesque faces of those petrifying monsters kept me from doing so. They were part of many nightmarish dreams that held me from slumber, and, before long, I began to fall into that accursed lore of them yet again.

I cannot tell you how or why, but the knowledge of these things is almost spellbinding. It was as if, in the very moment I saw the photographs, I could no longer forget them. And Richard's question constantly ricochet in every corner of my mind: how could something so terrible be forged? Even though I could find no secular record of their existence, I also knew there had to be something behind it all. Nearly in desperation, I even searched for my grandfather's journal in my home but to no avail. So, one night, I wrote a letter to Richard explaining my doubts and suspicions, but assured him that, despite these, I was not _fully_ convinced of delusion. I required more proof. I needed more answers.

It was on a Saturday, the first of December, when I went to the post office to deliver that letter. It was raining, not in a thunderous storm sort of way, but the clouds enveloped the sky in a manner so that sunlight could not penetrate through. And, although there were no lightnings or thunders to radiate the skyline, the soft drizzling of raindrops across the city left an undeniably foreboding atmosphere that should've prepared me for what I was about to encounter.

The mailroom was completely deserted, filled only with the soft rapping of work behind closed doors. Odd silvery pillars of light slipped through the windows like slowly crawling fingers across wood, and a single light bulb illuminated each space between the postal workers. They stood behind their counters in an unnaturally still manner, and even spoke to each other in cold, monotonous tones. Having stepped foot onto the sleek, wood flooring, instantaneously, an overwhelming feeling of caution ran through me. At first, I did not know where it came from, until the low, calculated voice of Warren Clark Ravensdale inched its way into my ears.

"You should be careful, Sir, " he stated. "Terrible weather today."

I cannot rationally explain to you how I knew, but he appeared informed, or at least cognizant of why I was there. The calm style of his voice seemed friendly and comforting, but my intuition left me with an uneasiness of speech and altogether a nervousness from his sudden presence. The emptiness in his pale blue eyes said so much more than his words did, and it chilled me to my very bones.

But I managed to collect my thoughts and still my quivering voice. "Indeed. One can never be too careful."

He lifted his nose in a curious sort of way. "Mailing a letter I see. To whom, may I ask?"

"A... friend of mine," I replied warily.

He placed a letter of his own on the counter-top, quietly acknowledged the clerk with a tip of his brow, and faced me once again. "It's a dangerous business, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Searching for knowledge."

I had no adequate reply. It frightened me how much it appeared he knew, even without saying anything at all. But it was his smile that petrified me, the countenance of which bore resemblance to a deliberate warning.

"I hope all is well with your friend."

The mailroom had four letters from Richard addressed to me that, for whatever reason, were not delivered to my home. I was informed upon request that the mail doesn't always come in when expected, and that, in the future, precautions would be taken to ensure that all mail addressed to me would be delivered on time. As you can probably imagine, I thought it peculiar. Prior to arriving, I had some suspicions of wrongs against Richard. After the interaction with Warren Clarke Ravensdale, I most readily attributed impending danger to my dear friend, and feared what I might find within those letters.

I feel obliged to warn you: the contents of these letters are some of the most disturbing things I have ever read. You may read them one at a time before you continue.

Wednesday, 14 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

I'm so sorry, my friend. I want to apologize for any frustration my stories might've caused you. It was not my intent, I swear. I am still appreciative and happy of your trust. It's strange.I'm still having some trouble, but sometimes I forget how much hasn't happened yet. Lewis, I hope that you are not discouraged because of this minor setback. Someone with your knowledge and drive for learning is a treasure not too many people possess. Keep it up.

PS. I've been curious about your grandfather's journal. Maybe the next time we get together, I can take a look at it.

Signed,  
Richard W. Drumlins

Tuesday, 20 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

I don't know if you've stopped replying to me because you're still frustrated -or maybe you're angry with me for knowingly encouraging you to look for the angels- but I feel that I should apologize again. I feel like I should be completely honest with you now. Stop pursuing it stop investigating the stories. Forget everything I ever told you because its not going to end well. The Weeping Angels are not something to be uncovered. They are secrets that should be buried forever. Nobody should have to experience the horrors that I now face. I wish I could show you. I wish I could prove it, but I fear for your life as well as mine.

Take heart this warning. because the pictures have come to life.

Saturday, 24 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

I don't know who I can turn to your the only person who will believe me. I hope you reply to me soon. I just need som one to understand. I am not crazy i am not insane. The Weeping Angels are real, Lewis! The Weeping Angels are real!

Wednesday, 28 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

It's been nearly two weeks. The Angels came out of the photographs. I have left the house in Glastonbury moved into a small cottage at the edge of London. I made sure it didn't have any windows. wish i had mirrors in every corner You can't be too careful Hopefully they won't be able to track me. but I'm still afraid. I think the Angels are still out there. I can't sleep. Too much on my mind There are dogs too, or maybe wolves. Theyre in forest behind the cottage. They bark and howl during some nights, not always, but it keeps me awake. I've been told dogs can sense things.

I think they're still after me. Its true what Sally told me. I shouldve listened to her I should've left them alone. I knew they were fast, but theyre faster than you can possibly imagine. the only reason why I'm alive to write you this letter is because she told me how to slow them down - yes, not stop them, but _slow them down_ - dont blink. Don't blink, Lewis. I have never been so terrified than on the night I stared into one of the angel's cold, empty eyes, hoping fear wouldnt overcome my senses, so that I could leave that damned house forever.

Nobody believes me, Lewis. Everybody thinks I'm crazy. You saw the photographs though. You believe me don't you? I hope you get this letter because it may be my last. I know what they do if they touch you, and if this is the last time we communicate, please, _do not_ come find me

Signed,

Richard W. Drumlins

Personally, I did not know how to feel after reading those letters. It was my initial response of trepidation, after our lapse in communication, that validated all of my fears. Some uncertain and disturbing events had befallen him, matters of which I had no explanation for. Even if I hadn't noticed the subtleties throughout, I'd still feel the same. It was the haunting and perplexing content that culminated within me an overall sensibility of dread. The candor of his retelling seemed to be motivated by a proper feeling of fear. And his handwriting from the first letter to the last continually became more erratic and illegible. The spelling and grammatical errors were uncharacteristic to say the least. He was an educated man, yet, it appeared as though he was in so much of a rush, he didn't bother to correct it. By the end, I was both fearful and disconcerted. What was he talking about? What could possibly have happened to him? Why did he tell me not to find him?

Only after rereading each letter separately did the gravity of his words fully sink in. There were many instances when sudden epiphanies shocked my system, wherefore my suspension of disbelief could hold no longer. For example, the idea of photographs actually becoming angels was preposterous, but it was this warning that seemed to unlock memories I thought were long forgotten. My grandfather wrote about this very thing in his journal. I remember thinking not blinking to keep the Angels at bay is nothing more than a children's game, but the truth was now undeniably confirmed. After much deliberation, I decided to call him by telephone, but as expected, he did not answer. An entire day transpired, where I debated over my considerations concerning his disappearance and whereabouts. It came about that any and every thought eventually went to the same point: Richard was missing. Consequently, then, I was decided. I went to Richard's cottage at the edge of London, despite his final letter's exhortation to disregard any attempts to find him.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

* * *

The cottage was situated in a remote area, surrounded by groves of leafless trees and fields of dying grass. It was small, made of simple stone and brick, overrun with curtains of vines and growth which made it appear unsettled, yet gave it a romantically picturesque quality. It seemed as though he did not take care of the lawn or its flower beds, and there was no sign of any personal affects of his own, but other than a lack of upkeep, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no disheveled foot prints or tire tracks that suggested a struggle or perhaps a kidnapping. A car, obviously one that was often used, was parked near the side of the front gate, but it appeared to be there purposefully, not uninvited. Everything seemed in its proper place, but upon arrival, I felt quite uneasy. Indeed, it was the perceived normalcy that made me feel tense. The disturbing scene only heightened my sense of horror when I knocked on the door because, as soon as I did, it opened. It was not locked, nor was the handle broken. The drearily cold cottage seemingly invited me in, encouraging my investigation further. Reason told me to leave that dreadful place immediately, to get as far away as I possibly could, but I was compelled to move forward. Quite honestly, I do not attribute any quality of courage on my part. It took every ounce of strength to keep my hands from shaking. I tell you now, the only reason I continued on was because of my concern for my friend.

It was dark inside. The open doorway provided a partial source of illumination, but it mostly acted to intensify the shadows in every corner. To my surprise, the cottage's interiors were vastly different than that of its outside. Whereas an atmosphere of normality characterized my arrival, the opposite held true afterwards. It was a soulless grave for the lonely and disregarded. To my right was the common room, to the left was a narrow hallway which led to the master bedroom. Each section was curiously without any furniture or personal items. The wallpaper was dull and peeled, as if years of neglect had turned a once beautiful home into a dilapidated coffin. The wooden floors, although not rotted or full of mold, had a layer of undisturbed dust which facilitated an odd sort of mustiness. It was evident that nobody had set foot there in many years. Only in the master bedroom did I find a small pile of blankets, haphazardly tossed aside in a manner of great distress or of unencumbered examination. The nature of these findings suggested thoughts of sinister misunderstandings, or at least speculations of a madness beyond that of comprehension. I did not doubt something terrible happened to Richard, but my fears, only necessitated more feelings of apprehension and nervousness. Thoughts of our quest to find the Weeping Angels now had the bitter taste of antipathy. There was no longer any anticipation of wonder held within possibilities of the unknown. Only accursed aversion towards those haunting sights, those abhorrent images of doom.

In desperation, I repeatedly called out Richard's name. There was no rationale behind my thought process, no sense of logic as to why I decided to do such a thing. It was the only action I thought to be appropriate. I called out louder, each time listening for something tangible.

As I walked down the dark and narrow passageway, which led away from the master bedroom, a sudden sound reached my ears. Something answered back. Naturally, I questioned whether it had been an echo, for it was muffled and quite unintelligible, however, it was the first indication of life that didn't facilitate feelings of anxiety. When I called out again, another muddled reply came back, inciting me to ignore any irregularities in the responses. Led solely by my thoughts, I came before the large double doors which led to the main living quarters. As the front door lay ajar, casting a light of assurance upon my discovery, I felt something menacing and uncomfortable about the descriptive sound of the voice, almost held back by some unknown force. But the compelling motivation of courage disregarded my intuition completely. And I immediately entered in.

I mentioned before that there was an impetuous movement of courage that drove me to search out the voiced responses to my calls- but as quickly as it came that courage was shockingly abolished by a sudden and paralyzing gust of active terror. The image shot into my consciousness which made those vague feelings of horror and apprehension upon my arrival mild and quite insignificant. A towering figure stood before me, arresting my vision in a frightful gaze. There was no chance of curbing the flights of macabre the image induced, for I recognized it immediately, and it was not without a sense of urgency that I kept my eyes open. _It was the ghastly statue of a Weeping Angel._

In that moment, I was wholly incapable of summoning the strength to resist my distress. It was as if the natural tendency to run from danger had been altogether forgotten, that each nerve within me had become petrified by that gruesome sight. It wasn't in it's monstrous state, as I had seen from Richard's lurid photographs, but it still illicit strong feelings of fear within me. In all honesty, his photographs were inadequate to prepare me for that moment. To see the statue in person was far worse than seeing it in printed form. And even as my body was stuck in an unwavering paralysis, my mind was tortured by the warning Richard gave me in his last letter: do not blink.

I must have stared at the terrible thing for more than a minute before I realized my vision beginning to falter. I tried my best. I tried to forcefully wish my eyes to impede the body's instinctive desire to close, but the spirit of endurance was woefully lacking in my strength. I did not want to do it, but as seconds advanced further, my emotions began to overrun me completely. Thoughts immediately went to Richard's description of the monsters, how they were faster than he could ever imagine, or to my grandfather's stories, how he told me of their unrelenting voracity. And I could not stop myself from doing it. I blinked, knowing full well it would be the last thing I'd do. Positive of a swift yet painful end, I closed my eyes and waited... but, remarkably, when I opened them again, the Angel remained where it was, frozen and unconcerned with its surroundings. At the height of an average man, facing the wall with its head buried in the crook of its arm, the Angel appeared hauntingly serene. Strange though it was, I recalled something my grandfather had told me, that the Weeping Angels sometimes covered their faces to protect themselves, for if they were to be seen by another Angel, they'd be forever locked in their statue forms. But other than a sense of self preservation, the Angels of my grandfather's tales were never described as _serene_. It was then that I was able to observe it unencumbered by those intense feelings I had formerly. The strange conflict of relief and panic in that moment is one I still cannot describe thoroughly. It did not attack me like I had fearfully anticipated, and I wondered why.

"No need to be afraid of the harmless," I heard suddenly. "They're only statues."

The subdued and deliberate voice held an odd and almost disturbing immediacy of recognition. As it slithered past me and into every corner of the living quarters, a different sort of uneasiness came upon me. Cautiously, I turned to see the unsettling sight of Warren Clark Ravensdale, enveloped in full silhouette and shadow. There was no way of knowing how long he had been there, whether he had just arrived or if he had been at the doorway the entire time, but every nerve in my body told me that he was somehow behind everything.

There seemed to be a faint atmosphere of tension as we stood in that empty room. If he noticed it as I had, there was little in his mannerisms to which I could tell. A shadowy figure of a man approached from behind and whispered something inaudibly to him. With a nod of his head, Ravensdale made a gesture with his hands, and a crew of men marched inside, making various measurements and calculations around the Weeping Angel statue. It happened so quickly, I was almost rendered speechless.

"What- what are they doing?" I was finally able to mutter.

He grinned. "They're taking it's measurements."

"For what?"

"For transport."

He delicately stepped onto the wooden floors. But not in a cautious sort of way. It was more deliberate, like someone who had been there many times before. Although his composure reflected one of ease and nonchalance, there was no hiding the excitement brimming behind his eyes. It was quite unsettling to say the least. Whereas I had come to characterize him with a cold sort of emptiness, there was now life coursing through his grin, a sinister brightness with each step. All the while, he focused his complete attention entirely on the statue of the Weeping Angel.

In retrospect, had the circumstances of this particular encounter been different, I most likely would not have had such an overwhelming sense of suspicion. But it wasn't different. Richard was missing and I could no longer stop myself from asking what was on my mind.

"Where's my friend?"

He stopped briefly as if to consider the question. "Your friend?"

"He lived here. What did you- where is he?"

The men worked seamlessly through each meticulous process of transporting the Angel while Ravensdale monitored their assignment with serious intention.

"I don't know what you're talking about. This place was empty when I arrived."

The way he denied knowing the truth was that of indifference, as if he had a complete disregard for my question. It startled me slightly. "He lived here. I'm positive of it."

"I can assure you," he responded calmly. "When I arrived, there was only this statue and nothing else. You must have seen it yourself. Nobody has lived here in years."

The low ebb of his words hung loosely in the thickness of the room, until it quietly settled against me like an iron gate. An odd sense of confusion quickly coursed through my faculties, leaving me almost as paralyzed as I was after seeing the Weeping Angel. He spoke with an unwavering sort of conviction, and his statements had an implication of veridicality. But I knew it was impossible for any logical persuasion to be on his side. Still, in a sorted capacity within myself, an urge to question my perception on the matter shook my confidence most dramatically. The facts suddenly didn't add up and there was nowhere for me to look for more.

"Why are you taking the Angel?"

"Sir," he mused almost offended. "Your suspicion towards me is quite unfounded."

"Who- who are you?"

"I'm the Keeper at the Miskatonic Museum. I've been searching for the Weeping Angel statues for a long time."

I looked at the stony features and shuddered. Why had it not moved? Why was it staying still? "You can't take it," I said. "It's dangerous."

He grinned once more. "It's just a statue."

All at once, I was at a loss of words. My mind had become too agitated with a bombardment of questions and self-doubt to respond fittingly. Because of this, I was unable to stop them. It was all I could coherently do but to watch his men finish boarding up the Weeping Angel and take it away. The uncertainty I felt after their swift departure was that of increased concern and anxiety. By the end of the ordeal, I was no closer to finding Richard than I had been prior to searching. I hadn't the slightest idea outside of the tumultuous intuition I had regarding Ravensdale and his men, but even that was without real basis in demonstrated evidence. Honestly, there was also a sense of guilt within me. A feeling that there was something else I could've tried in order to help Richard, wherever he might be. And I ended up doing the only logical thing I could think to do. I called Scotland Yard and hoped they could investigate the situation further.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

* * *

Seven days passed, and I had not heard any word from the police. As a result, my worrisome mind was wrought with more confusion and deepening uncertainties. I began to think that maybe my mind had perhaps played a trick on me, that everything I had experienced was only in my head. But to think that the detectives were too busy looking for Richard than to contact me was more comforting than the alternative. I had to trust that they were doing everything in their power to find him, although, admittedly, I must say doing so was decidedly more taxing than I realized.

While I waited for a correspondence from Scotland Yard, I stubbornly tried to distract myself from the entire set of events. If ever a passing thought of Richard or the Angels entered into my mind, in an attempt to gain a semblence of sanity, I made it a point to occupy myself with established truths, matters I _knew _to be real, such as biology or the physical sciences. It proved unsuccessful, however, to return me to any sort of normalcy. Quite the opposite, in fact, for even the Weeping Angels once occupied the title of _established _truths and now everything about those terrible statues was strongly in question. And yet, I could not stop myself from falling into the obsessive gravity of their mystique.

I have mentioned before about the spellbinding nature of the Weeping Angels. Once their existence is learned, once the sight of them has been seen, the deed cannot be undone. Yes, the dread I had come to know pulled me towards them with a terrible magnetism. It is a point of contradiction since I can truthfully tell you that I was terrified of the things, yet I could not erase them from my mind. It was this arresting insanity that drew me deeper into a previously growing sense of isolation. Every time I went to sleep, my nightmares reminded me of the Angels. Every time I woke up, realities reminded me of Richard's disappearance. If I was not haunted by the images of their horrible faces, I was reminded of my failure to find my friend. Indeed, I was truly alone, with nothing more than deprived echoes, responding empty answers to my pleas for help. I care not to fully express how wrought with guilt I had become, for nothing seemed to alleviate the storm in my mind. Too many questions plagued me, too many answers needed to be found, and the desire to search them out continued to course through me like a poison.

I want to assure you, my friend, I am not without sympathy. After the incident at Richard's cottage, I found myself in the same circumstances you find yourself now. Fear, frustration, and loneliness are powerful agents to disrupt one's mind and focus. Understandably so, these are strongest when we are at our lowest and there is no other kind of insecurity like the kind of lost conviction. A person's beliefs are the foundation of so many other aspects of life. Once that confidence is shattered, there is very little to make sense of the world again. In truth, I tell you that I had become abysmally unsure of what I believed in. I slept very little, convinced of one thoughtless theory after another. Are the Weeping Angels everything we thought they were? Was I somehow led astray by a figment of my imagination? If my grandfather eventually went insane in his quest to find the Weeping Angels, why not me? These were questions that plagued me for days, tearing away at the very fabric of my heart and mind. To think that Richard had, not only, experienced similar emotions as these, but was somehow able to _endure_ them on his own was beyond reasonable explanation. Thus, inevitably, I became obsessed over the overwhelming contradictions of recent months until, in a fit of uncontrolled frustration that resulted in the disarray of my apartment, I was readily convinced of pure madness.

It wasn't until I went to my father's house, wherefore a firm sense of resolution was re-ignited, did I find solace in the complete affirmation of my sanity.

It was on a gloomy, winter Tuesday when I received a call from him. The weather that day seemed to appropriately reflect the devastated state I was in. Rumbling grey clouds cast drearily over the city like an ominous, dark blanket, threatening to strike with lightnings and thunders at any given moment. I was laying on my couch, contemplating the ravaging battle within my head, while the constant droll of falling raindrops beat up against the window. Even though the call was not necessarily unexpected, he was the last person I thought I'd be speaking to that day. Initially, I assumed it was Scotland Yard and the disappointment I held after hearing his gruff and raggedy voice was difficult to mask.

"Lewis," he said slowly.

"Yes," I replied.

But there was no response. Silence slowly seeped through the transceiver like a trickling faucet, and I was unwilling to wait any longer. Before I was able to end the conversation, however, I was paralyzed by the most simple yet terrifying question he could ask me.

"Please... can you visit me?"

Forasmuch as I wanted to deny it, I was unable to collect a sensible thought after fully processing his question. It was shocking to say the least since that proud man's request led me to conclude an undeniable need for something previously unheard of. Companionship. And help. On the memorial of my mother's death, that desolate and dreary mid-winter Tuesday, it was indeed surprising, yet now seems oddly misplaced to what eventually occured that day.

My father's apartment was a very pleasant and well-furnished home for someone in his circumstances. Although I was deeply hurt at the loss of my mother, losing a wife is a pain I have not had the opportunity to experience. I assume there is a strong sense of loneliness attributed to life afterwards. It must've been difficult for my father to have a single bed again. The visit, in this case, was one of impulse. I did not make it a practice to visit him often, nor was there much need to, but, for whatever reason, I felt as though I should. Ultimately, I suppose, I needed to be around him as much as he did me.

We began with the routine pleasantries, much like our previous conversations. He did not have much to say except that the nurse who came by on rotation was someone he thought I should get a chance to know better. Overall, our conversation seemed to reflect the uncomfortableness felt on both sides. He must have sensed a greater measure of it on my part though because, after a lull began to develop, he cleared his throat and said:

"What's on your mind, Lewis?"

I did not attempt to hide my nervousness, nor did I try to dodge his question. I did, however, hesitate to answer him. The words I wanted to express, it seemed, could not find a voice of its own. My father was not one to ask about a person's well-being, let alone that of his son. I remembered, when I was a child, his stern face, and as I stared into his eyes, his face still bore that look of serious contemplation, but his voice held a tone of genuine concern. Strange though it was, I perceived that this was indeed a kind gesture towards me. But as I looked again, my recognition was mixed with sadness and anxiety; for certainly, this face was that of a very lonely man.

He waited patiently, until finally, I cleared my throat as well. "Have you ever lost your belief in something?"

He paused to think for a moment. "Are you referring to losing one's faith?"

I sighed regrettably. "No... I don't mean faith."

"Then I don't understand what you mean."

Initially, I felt it best to leave the matter unresolved, for you see, my father and I have always been on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Being deeply religious, he was always a man of faith, and myself, a man of science, found such things to be perplexing and, ultimately, futile. But something in the back of my mind resisted that urge. I cannot fully explain what the cause of the compulsion might have been, but I needed someone to understand, I needed someone else to know the plight I had suddenly found myself in. So, instead of changing the subject or even excusing myself, I leaned forward and, with as much articulation of speech, attempted to have my father understand.

"I feel as though I am losing my mind."

He narrowed his eyes in thought, but gestured for me to continue.

Once more, I found myself taken aback at his actions. I nodded my head and continued. "I've been searching for something... something I wish not to say. But, at the start, the excitement of it all seemed to be enough to pursue further... the farther I continued, the more confused I became... and now I am unsure of what is real. I fear that the discovery of what I have been searching for has come at the cost of my sanity..."

He remained in silence, obviously engrossed in some sort of contemplation. But I was sure he could never understand.

"What is it that you've been searching for?" he asked.

It may be added that I was quite embarrassed over what I was about to say. I think, at one point, there was a rationalized notion to tell him a lie, perhaps something else that he might be able to wrap his thoughts around, but, after everything that happened, it seemed wrong. Who else would I go to? How could I keep the truth hidden from the person I was trying to gain comfort and understanding from?

Once again, I was able to withstand any natural tendencies. "The Weeping Angels."

"I see," he responded very plainly. "Like your grandfather."

"Yes," I replied solemnly.

"Now I understand what you mean."

Forasmuch as our estranged relationship had become, that moment seemed to be the most anticipation I've held for my father's words. I knew he was deep in the thought, for the furrowing of his eyebrows and the piercing of his lips was quite indicative of a process, but whatever he was to say next, I hadn't the slightest clue.

"Your grandfather and I," he started suddenly, in a quiet, controlled tone, "never saw eye-to-eye on many things, particularly on this subject. But I cannot not deny him his tenacity for truths, his vigor for knowledge, because, quite frankly, it was impressive. It's something you share with him... As his son, I learned never to try his determination for doing what he thought was right, even if I didn't agree. He needed to make his own decisions. Of course, I wasn't always that way; I'm stubborn, as you know... It takes a measure of time before I can let someone go.

"But the Weeping Angels. Those damned things... will I never be rid of them? We used to argue about them daily. Your grandfather- he never stopped talking about them. He never stopped searching for them either. It consumed him, Lewis, right up until his death. I believe even now that it was the Weeping Angels that eventually caused his insanity... but, truthfully, I do not believe it was because they weren't real."

I never thought it possible for my father to say such things. My feelings in that moment were purely of surprise and intrigue.

"Let me show you something."

As he left to retrieve the thing, that certain shock which coursed through me came to have more facets for me to sift through. It was a shock filled with bits of comfort but also a strong sense of unsorted strangeness. Although it was exactly what I needed to hear, I was unable to fully process the sincerity and understanding behind it. This, however, ceased almost at once, as soon as I saw what he wanted to show me.

My father returned with a book. It was small, only slightly larger than a person's hand, leather bound, and with a red page marker that hung out from the bottom. He placed it on the armrest to my left and solemnly took his seat. I took the small book into my grasp, delicately turning each page with awe, with a growing impression that would be utterly unforgettable.

It was then that he cleared his throat again. "Did I ever tell you about the time your grandfather wanted to stop searching for the Weeping Angels?"

I shook my head mutely.

"He was fed up. Tired from the ridicule and... well, from me. He had some information and documented it down in that book, his journal, but it wasn't enough for people to take him seriously. It was just enough for his reputation to fall apart, for the relationships with those he loved to decay.

"He had one friend though. Someone he met at the coffee shop he frequented whenever he put his notes together. I never knew his name, never had a chance to meet him, but your grandfather told me that he was the one who saved his life. You see, his desperation and despair during that time had come to a disturbing point, and it was only from this friend that he was able to move beyond it. This friend helped him to renew his desire to find in the Weeping Angels, to continue his quest and to fill his journal with as much information as he could.

"Of course, I thought he was mad. I told him how foolish he was to pursue those dreadful things... but it did not stop him. And, as you can see, he filled it. He filled that journal completely."

By the time I had listened a few seconds I was broadly attentive, for the nature of his story was such as to make all disquieting thoughts about his strangeness inconsequential. Of course, I had wondered who the man was or what he must have told my grandfather, but every page of my grandfather's journal was exactly what I remembered, and I was convinced. Every word, every warning, every bit of information he found on the Weeping Angels was written in the book, forever ingrained in a manner of truth and validity.

I was speechless. "Why do you have this? I've been looking for it."

"You never took it with you when you moved. It's been at the house this entire time."

"But why- why did you keep it?"

He nodded his head knowingly. "Because of _faith_, Lewis."

Faith. A word he used so often, which held very little meaning to me, was now being used in a context unfamiliar. I was forced to finally looked up, to face him. For the need of complete understanding had to be satisfied.

"What do you mean?" I said. "What does _any_ of this have to do with faith?"

"Lewis," my father stated calmly. "Do you know what the definition of faith is?"

"It's a hope based on _credulity_. An _irrational_ belief in something that doesn't exist."

He nodded his head. "I once thought that too. I used to think it was a belief that a person had to feel, whether or not it made sense. But do you know what the real definition of faith is?"

"No."

"There is a scripture that says faith is the _substance_ of things hoped for, the _evidence_ of things not seen... It means our confidence in realities must be based on proof, otherwise it's meaningless. You're a man of science, Lewis. How do you know that the wind is real? Or how do you know that gravity exists?"

I thought for a moment before replying. "Because... we can see how it affects the world around us. There's proof of their existence."

"Exactly!" He pointed enthusiastically. "Just because we can't see the air, doesn't mean it never moves the leaves. Or just because we can't see gravity, doesn't mean a rock won't fall when it's dropped. We know it's there because of the _evidence_. And as a scientist, you make conclusions based on that solid evidence, don't you?

"Lewis, I kept my father's journal because it is the only evidence I have that proves his sanity. It is the basis of the faith I have in him as a _person_... It took me a long time to realize that. Lewis, your grandfather, much like yourself, was a man that has always searched for knowledge. He always made decisions based on fact and nothing more. Look at that journal. It is much too detailed, too full of hard work and strain, to be completely fictitious. I know my father. I know his character. If he believed that those horrible creatures were real, it must be true.

"I'm not saying that I think your search for them is a good idea, nor am I saying that his was either... but you're not insane, Lewis. That book in your hands is the proof."

It is utterly amazing to me how a change in one's attitude can completely reverse feelings and perceptions once preconceived. For me, from that point onward, I felt able to act, with a motivation ready for instant use. Yes, Richard was still missing, but the Angels were not just statues. They were real. I had my grandfather's journal as proof. And with his disappearance undeniably connected to the Weeping Angels, I reasoned that if I could somehow find them, it may eventually lead me to his whereabouts as well. It only seemed logical, then, to visit the Miskatonic Museum, since it was the only place I knew to find an Angel statue. Little did I know, it was to be the last statue I'd ever find.

The first time I set foot in that grim museum was a day after the conversation with my father. I did not know what to expect, but, quite frankly, I feel obliged to tell you that the Miskatonic Museum is one of most overtly strange places I have ever set foot in. Odd displays of books and literature of things I have never heard of seemed to be its pride, but there were gruesome tapestries and clay markings of creatures of some ancient lore that were visibly celebrated. Ancient scrolls with names like Tsathaggua, Shub-Niggurath, Tuggoth, the Mi-Go and the Great Cthulu passed by my vision, amassing a sense of intrigue until, finally, I happened upon a small room labeled _The Weeping Angel._ This was the room I was searching for, and upon finding it, I was immediately caught up in my original purpose for coming.

Seeing the thing once again brought back feelings of dread, but more so than that, I felt the familiar twinge of confusion. Here was one of the most dangerous creatures in the entire universe, faster than the blink of an eye, yet it remained unmoved on a solid mass, displayed behind velvet rope and a plaque which read partially inaccurately about its history. Many people gathered in the small room to view it and to comment on it's mystifying yet common form, whilst I waited patiently for the crowd to disperse so that, with an unencumbered view, I might make a better judgement for myself. Unfortunately, my opinion on the matter remained the same. Why had it not left? What made this Weeping Angel different than every other Weeping Angel I've heard about? It came to a point wherefore I even spoke to it. Yes, absurd as that may sound, I voiced my troubled conscience, for this was the thing that took my friend. Why it did so and why it acted uncharacteristically was beyond me. And sadly, being there only enhanced my frustration.

With an exasperated sigh, I turned my back and walked towards the exit. I felt as though I had seen enough... but I found to my perplexity that the forcible drive of the Angel itself kept beating at the back of my mind. Would to heaven I had quietly left the place before allowing my sight to rest again on its form, I most definitely would not be here to write these words for you. It is a wonder that I did not scream, become paralyzed, or collapse into a wild scramble, but somehow I failed to do even that. I actually managed to leave the Museum in a calmly manner, without a sense of dread or horror, but rather, in an oddly composed constitution of amazement.

As I have implied, before my leave, I gazed once more upon the Weeping Angel statue; then noticing for the first time the movement of the Angel itself. Whereas its head was originally hidden within the crook of its arm, it was now looking up, straight towards me. Once again, it was not in its malicious form with brimming razor fangs or demonic twisted claws- it had a look of stoicism, and since it was the first time I had seen it move, I was altogether hooked with engaged curiosity. It left an uneasy ripple of surprise, for there was nothing of actual visual horror about it. The intrigue was in what it led one to infer.

The face- perfect to the last, subtle detail of resemblance and identity- was the face of my friend Richard Drumlins!

Once I had blinked, however, it had returned to it's original placement.


	5. Chapter 5

V.

* * *

By the time I had fully grasped what I had seen, the museum was closing for the night, thus I was forced to take my leave. But, as you can imagine, I was completely enthralled by the vision of my friend's face, locked forever in that terribly empty gaze. I think it might be an understatement to conclude that an overflow of questions caused a secondary sense of bewildered shock, but I perceived within myself an odd tendency towards wonder, a sort of awe that pushed me to ask more questions. How could Richard turn into an Angel itself? Could it be that his interactions with the creatures somehow changed him completely? Why was he choosing to stay in the museum, even when he was not being looked upon? Is it possible that he waited for me to see him? These questions only provoked what was already previously intensified. Truthfully, if there was any cause for an active interest on my part, it was altogether motivated by a proper sense of fear.

I began with a thorough search through my grandfather's journal, a systematic study for any bit of information regarding an Angel's touch or perhaps an Angel's form, but I was unable to find any conclusive findings regarding either. The journal itself was not in any sort of logical order, some points at the beginning, while others related to it at the end. The record was detailed, to be sure, but what I wished to find was underneath a layer of scribbled notes and personal accounts. What I wished to find was something of specificity. But I was not discouraged. The following day, I went to the museum and waited once more for an opportunity to be alone with Richard's statue. As expected, as soon as the room was clear of any witnesses, Richard briefly revealed himself and, in the blink of an eye, returned to its previous state.

There is seldom an instance wherefore my interest in discovery is not perpetuated by mystery, but after those first two occurrences, I was certainly led along by an overwhelming lack of answers. I returned to the museum on three other occasions, each time with the intent to find a pattern to the strangeness, and, as anticipated, he faced me. Yes, it was obvious to me that he was attempting to communicate, but I was still at a loss for what these messages meant... until, one day, something changed.

On Monday December tenth, I received a letter from the post office with a note apologizing for the tardiness of yet another piece of mail. This letter was dated on the 17th of November, addressed to me from Richard himself, and conclusively must have been lost in the shuffle of the other delayed letters. When I read it, I must confess, there was a bit of apprehension. Understandably, my attitude towards the matter was by this time an alarmedly personal one. I was afraid for Richard in his present circumstances, yet half intrigued by the contents it contained, but it acted as a way for me to affirm my confidence in Richard's efforts to communicate with me.

The letter reads as follows:

Saturday, 17 November 1956

To my friend, Lewis: -

Your frustrations about the contradictions between the legends of the Weeping Angels and my side of the story is completely justifiable. I completely understand. I do... and I must apologize again. There's so much I wish you could understand, but I held back from revealing the full truth because I was afraid of your reaction. But that shouldn't have stopped me from being honest with you.

Lewis, probably the easiest way to explain to you _why_ there is no record of the Weeping Angels, my great grandfather's house, or even Sally Sparrow, is because no records of them exist yet. Allow me to explain. In the future, there is a device called the internet that allows people from all over the world to communicate to each other in seconds. Information is at our fingertips and nothing is a secret. There are places called Forums where people discuss and share knowledge about anything in the world and that is where I found out about the Weeping Angels. Scripts about certain devices called DVDs, with an incomplete warning from a man called The Doctor, proliferated the web. Amongst the theories and fictions, I happened upon a complete copy by a man named Larry Nightingale. It interested me at how much sense it made so I sought him out. To my surprise, he told me his experience with the Weeping Angels first hand. His wife, Sally Sparrow, used to visit my great grandfather's house after he mysteriously disappeared, taking pictures of it's melancholy emptiness. They told me about how they were able to communicate with The Doctor and save his phone box and, ultimately, how they were able escape. I jumped onto the forums to spread the story but nobody believed me or what I had to say. Naturally, I had to give them proof, so I went to my great grandfather's house to see the statues myself. I took pictures of them, of the house, everything I needed in order to prove the story true. My mistake was moving them from their original spots. I wanted to take pictures of them individually. So I moved one out from the square to take a picture. My fatal mistake was blinking. One second I was in the basement of my great grandfather's house and in the next I was somewhere else, years in the past, confused and unsure of what happened. It wasn't until much later did I realize what had transpired. And, by that time, my desire to get back to the future was fully established. I thought that if the Weeping Angels could send me into the past, they could send me to the future. I just needed to find one.

Remember when you asked my why the Angels were so important to me? That is why I seek to find them. I wish to get back to my family, back to my time, and forget all of the horribleness they have caused me.

I hope you can forgive me for not being honest, Lewis. Our separate reasons for finding the Weeping Angels has, at its core, a common goal. I'm positive that by working together we can help each other in what we are actually looking for.

Signed,  
Richard W. Drumlins

Such were the words for which I was to read when I received the letter. Afterwards, I held the paper in my hands, likely for minutes, before it was fully processed. The extreme disposition of his letter was highly irregular so that my brain whirled; and where before I had attempted to explain things away, I was now accustomed to believe in the most abnormal and incredible wonders. Reading Richard's letter was just the final point which gave me allowance to relinquish any contained mental self-control. But it was not the absurdity of time travel that caused me to reconsider what I had read, it was the revelation of Richard's true motivation for searching out the Weeping Angels. Although he did not initially tell me why, I determined that he only wanted to reconcile fact and fiction. But his motive was deeper than that. Unfortunately, knowing the truth did not satisfy my curiosity, but stoked the guilt that was already enflamed. Immediately, I grabbed my grandfather's journal, and sojourned to the Miskatonic Museum for the final time.

Peculiar as it was, the Miskatonic Museum was virtually deserted. A few patrons walked about the various display cases and exhibits, but, overall, the place was barren and empty. Verily, I found myself to be the only person in the Weeping Angel's exhibit, happily free from any distractions or need for patience. But it was then, the last time I set foot in that grim museum, that I felt the complete sense of loss.

I approached slowly, every step resounded by a skittish ricochet off of the hollowed walls. Now and then I reminded myself to breathe, for being in the presence of that statue never ceased to make my body tremble, even if I knew it held the consciousness of my good friend. A single light from the rafters listlessly drifted slightly off kilter just above Richard's display, causing its shadow to dance below the concrete mass it stood upon. As soon as I came just in front of the velvet rope, I stood still, unsure of what I wanted to say or do. As I had done previously, I closed my eyes, and upon opening them, found that Richard was already looking at me. It took a measurable amount of courage to match his silent stare.

I surveyed his stony features, looking for some sort of humanity, some sense of who he used to be, but seeing as I was already crushed by his letter, the reality of his disappearance readily set in. Whatever life my friend wanted back was gone forever. Whomever he loved, whomever he held dear to his heart, were gone because he could no longer be with them. Becoming an angel took away that hope- any hope for returning to his own time, and I felt the emptiness that sorrowful realization brought up within me. It was as though our quest had come to an abrupt halt. All the legends of the past, and all the stupefying imputations of Richard's photographs, even the relentless searching and the frustrations of impatience, it welled up in a meaningless memory that no longer carried a purpose.

"I'm sorry, Richard," I felt compelled to say. "I'm so, so sorry... I received your letter too late. I- I don't completely understand it... But I suppose it's not in my capabilities to know right now."

A slight chuckle escaped from my mouth at that moment, for over the course of my friendship with Richard, there were so many things I was not able to fathom, yet here I was again, fully aware of monstrous moving statues or time travel, but still I was unable to bear them at present. But the thought went away as quickly as it had come.

I shook my head in sadness and in an admitted defeat. "There is so much that I wish I could do for you... but there's nothing I can do- I am completely useless to help you! Your family will never see you again. Your friends. Your life... It's gone... We began this with such vigor and freeness. Our unencumbered reach was boundless in possibility. We had conviction. We had faith- each of us had something vital to prove... didn't we?... We were both right, you know. The Weeping Angels _are_ indeed real. You found them... and my grandfather wasn't insane. We were both right, Richard... yet you didn't get what you wanted... I've never felt so disappointed."

Never was a sane man more dangerously close to appearing utterly insane. There I was, speaking to an Angel statue. It was a thoughtless rant to be sure, but it was full of genuine frustration and pain. I felt it necessary to tell him how I felt, even if I was unsure if he was able to hear. Saying it out loud kept the insufferable emotions I felt from building up into absolute mental chaos. But the statue continued to remain motionless. The blank expression on his face only facilitated further guiltiness.

"Look!" I exclaimed pulling out my grandfather's journal from my coat pocket. "I even found the journal. You never got a chance to read it... I wish I could go back in time and give this to you. Everything my grandfather found is in here. 'That which holds the image of an Angel becomes itself an Angel'. It's right here..." I looked down, the journal held firmly in my grasp. I was unable to face him anymore. "It was right here. It could've helped you. You could've thrown away those damned photographs... You wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have become one of them... Why did you have to look at them in the eyes-"

When I lifted my head, I was once again rattled by a surprising turn of events. Richard was no longer staring at me merely with stoicism. His arm was lifted, and his pointer finger was directed at _me_. To be brief and plain, I was taken aback. This one act was outside of the pattern I had seen over the last week and had considerably brought about a new message for me to encode and decipher. But it was outrageous! I had not yet understood the meaning behind the first!

"What are you trying to tell me?!" I lamented. "What is it that you want?"

Richard remained motionless. His finger pointed directly towards me.

"I don't understand, Richard! I don't know! Why are you doing this?!" I threw my hands into the air. "What is different about today? What possible reason could there be?!... Everything is as it was when I first came, and every subsequent visit afterwards has not changed. Nothing is different. The only other thing I can think of is-" I stopped. And looked at my grandfather's journal. I gripped it more tightly and moved closer to him. "Is it this?"

Richard was again motionless, but his finger was now pointed at the journal.

"Why do you want me to pay attention to this?"

Of course, he did not answer. He continued where he was. His finger pointed directly at the journal. But I was not discouraged. The new sense of understanding momentarily abated those previous emotions. Having come to the conclusion, I felt as though I should not allow myself to stop. I was so close to uncovering the truth. To discover that my grandfather's journal was the thing he had been waiting for was a particular comfort, but it is remarkable how answering one question only brings about more.

With slight hesitancy, I presented the journal just below his finger. "I don't know what you want, Richard. Please... help me understand."

It was then that I closed my eyes. And waited...

To feel the weight of his hand unseen upon the journal itself was both relieving and terrifying all at once. With my eyes closed, I heard the soft turning of pages and I wondered what it was he was searching for. It brought about a queer sort of aversion and panic, but I dared not open my eyes to look, until, finally, he stopped.

I realize how impossible it may still seem to you. The time has yet to come for you to experience what that word truly means. But the accumulation of my experiences had clearly led me up to that point. Although there was a strange sense of incompleteness to it all, Richard's messages pointed me in a certain direction, one that I had not fully understood. It was as if the knowledge of the Angel's existence had no significance without any application behind it. Indeed, I was overall reserved about what I might find, yet upon opening my eyes, the purpose became clear. With Richard's finger gently pressed against the tattered paper, my gaze slowly traveled from his face, to his hand, and down upon the printed page, where I found what he wanted me to see.

Penned in that cramped, archaic-looking scrawl, the journal was opened to the account of your plight with uncertainty, yes, the very story my father told me a week prior.

It was then that I realized what Richard wanted me to do. The idea was preposterous, to say the least, and it garnered definite inquiries regarding the reasons behind such a suggestion. I had never previously considered the thought, and there was no sensible logic behind it, but despite the incredible nature of what he implied, I could not help but at once take Richard more seriously than our friendship had previously precipitated. From the first, I saw that Richard was a man of character, kindness, and intelligence. He appreciated and valued our friendship as much as I did. But, it appeared that he also had greater control over what I can only assume to be the Angel's instinct. There was still a sense of humanity left within him. He was in there somewhere, trying to help me, despite that there was nothing left to do for him.

When he extended his finger towards me, I immediately understood that any natural apprehension was unfounded. I realized then that it was his friendship that furthered my motivation when he disappeared. Yes, it was even his act of friendship that moved me to do this, to trust in him implicitly and come to you, to pretend I didn't know you, and to wait patiently until the time arrived for me to reveal the truth. I suppose I will never get a chance to fully express to him how important his friendship was to me, but I can tell you how much yours meant. Because _this_ is why I Have come. As I pen these words to you now, I can't help but wonder where I might be had it not been for you. From every fond memory as a child to now, I am forever indebted to you. Your experiences were the proof of my own conviction, the motivation behind my bouts with uncertainty. And with these words, I wish to return the gesture. These accounts of my life are not mere tales of fantasy. These are true. Indeed, these will give you strength whenever you feel lost or discredited... I am confident they will. But, regardless of what will happen, I suppose this is where my story ends.

Please, I implore you not to tell anyone who I am or what you have read. Like I have stated before, I have written this for you, and _only_ you. In the end, I hope that it serves as a reminder. A reminder that everything you've accomplished was _worth it_. That _everything_ you have yet to accomplish will help not only myself but millions of people for years to come.

Take care. Always remember that the truth you seek is not out of your reach. Do not give up, for in due time, you will find it.

Your loyal friend and loving grandson,  
Lewis Holloway


End file.
